


HD 'Spare'  [NC-17]  Happy Birthday, a_execution!

by tigersilver



Series: Spare [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hate Sex, Love/Hate, M/M, Sibling Incest, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-28
Updated: 2011-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-08 19:50:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy hates Harry Potter. Draco Malfoy loves Harry Potter, in a weird twisty way that can't be described properly. Draco and Harry Potter happen to be shagging, which is a little dubious when Harry is Draco's half-brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	HD 'Spare'  [NC-17]  Happy Birthday, a_execution!

HD 'Spare'  
Author: [](http://tigersilver.livejournal.com/profile)[**tigersilver**](http://tigersilver.livejournal.com/)  
Rating: NC-17  
Warnings: Incestuous relationship between half-siblings  
Pairing: H/D  
Word Count: 2400  
A/N: Hogwarts era. For [](http://a-execution.livejournal.com/profile)[**a_execution**](http://a-execution.livejournal.com/)

 

**HD ‘Spare’**  
…A long time ago, [](http://a-execution.livejournal.com/profile)[**a_execution**](http://a-execution.livejournal.com/) wanted brotherly love. A drabble for her birthday, then. Hogwarts-era.  
   
"Get out of my rooms, Potter."  
  
"No." Harry's not budging; he's every right to be plumped on the sofa before the hearth...just like the arsehole. "Not."  
  
"Seriously, leave. I'm not asking again." Malfoy tilts his chin at Harry edge-wise and slants him a hateful glare. The implication is hexing is next up. Harry sets his own chin quite firmly, which should've been all Potter...but wasn't.  
  
"No." It's his personal anthem, that word.  “No. I won’t. ” His mantra. He knows it drives Malfoy mad so he uses it constantly, even when it’s something as simple and non-confrontational such as 'pass the toast, please.'  "Not going. Lump it, dickweed."  
  
"Don't tempt me, Potter." Malfoy's up and stalking, right on schedule. Harry leans his head back against the cushions and treats him to a warning stare.  He won’t be shifted. If the prat thinks he's got enough brawn to scare Harry off the best of all the divans in the entire East Wing, he's another think coming. "I'll make you go, Potter, here and now--see if I don't."  
  
He's advancing, which mean Harry's bracing and making a few preparatory motions. His textbooks and the swotting guide Hermione made up for him (likely out of misguided sympathy when she heard the news) are ditched carefully over one arm of the sofa; the Quidditch manual Ron gave him is discreetly tucked beneath a farther cushion, out of harm’s way.  
  
As there will be harm done, likely.    
  
"You won't," Harry sneers carefully in return, and he’s ready to roll with any rumble. "You daren't, Malfoy." The sneer’s decent, modeled on Malfoy’s—almost a mirror image. He's done his best to learn the Malfoy sneer ever since he learnt he was one. Curse Dumbledore for these unpleasant little surprises he likes to spring, but at least Harry has ( _this_ , Hermione says, is the lonely, only 'bright side'): one entire living, breathing parent. Of his very own, though he has to share him. And not (so not) the one he’d ever choose but…oh, well.  “Sod the hell off, Malfoy,” Harry cautions, swallowing bile. He’s serious, too. If it comes to blows, he'll suffer no compunction.  “Lucius has the room charmed. He'll know if you dare lift one pinky finger against me."  
  
"Hmm."  
  
The mention of Lucius Malfoy stops his firstborn son in his graceful tracks. He pauses, motionless and still as a considering cat excepting for the quick flex of bared toes in the luxurious carpet, and then nods at Harry--just the once, sharply. He’s smiling. Harry’s gut quivers in response but he’s made of stern stuff.  
  
He tilts his head and tosses his fringe back out of his narrowed eyes. Waits for it.  
  
"Who says, brother--" Malfoy asks, one blond slash of a brow raised in acid emphasis, " _dear_ brother, that I'm figuring on 'lifting a finger'...against you? I mean, _I_ ," and there's a drawl seeping into his voice that could butter many a Hogwart’s-sized casserole dish with, "happen to believe there's more than one way to skin a...Potter. And I've more at hand than merely fingers."  
  
He’s beautiful, is Malfoy. Smiling or smirking. Harry can at least admit that freely.  
  
"M'not a Potter!" This one point, however, still has the power to infuriate Harry, even six months down the road. Remembering the tremendous fuss Dumbledore's Owl to Lucius ( _an _d_ N_ arcissa--poor lady!) had engendered still gave Harry a horrible prickling sensation across his nape. It had been a huge thing and highly unpleasant for all concerned. Remus was still reeling over it; thank Merlin Sirius wasn’t around to object.  
  
"Can't you manage to keep it straight, Malfoy?" he jeers (mainly because if _he_ doesn’t jeer first, Malfoy _will_ beat him to it.) "Your--pardon, _our_ \--father shagged my Mum, yeah? Little hard to forget, don’t you think? So, just… keep your hands off, twat. I live here too, now. It’s as much my room as yours."  
  
"Oh, well," Malfoy shrugs, first with one slim shoulder and then the next. “Well.” It’s the ultimate brush-off. "Y'see, there's the problem, Potter." He's moving again, at last, but he’s sauntering now, no longer stalking. "Hands to myself, huh?"  
  
In a circuitous fashion, even so, Malfoy's stroll, and following a meandering pattern that takes him 'round a few delicate-looking chairs and across the magnificent hearth rug. Harry can’t help but tense with every languid long-legged step that draws Malfoy nearer his own current stake-out. He might be a Slytherin, Harry's brand-new half brother, but he's not the yellow-bellied coward Harry believed him to be. Git's sneaky as shit but he's gutsy and all the parental anger-management charms in the world aren’t likely to divert him.  
  
He snickers.  
  
"That, sadly, I can’t exactly promise, Potter. Oh! 'Scuse me! _Malfoy_. Malfoy Redux. Yeah?” He likes to flaunt his Latin; another annoying Malfoyism to add to Harry’s growing list. And he's thinks he's clever, another irksome trait. “Or...is it?" The seemingly aimless pace has fetched him right before the sofa Harry's currently claiming. With a daringly bold step he's standing wedged between Harry’s casually spread knees, just as if he belonged there. "Hmmm. It is this that’s your problem, Potter? Should I bow to the inevitable, maybe, and make that final bitter effort to address you properly as...'Harry', brother mine?"  
  
Harry inhales fast and fiercely; so fast in fact he chokes a bit. Malfoy _hates_ his brother. With a passion.  
  
"Er! Get off me!"  
  
It's this version of Malfoy that actually frightens Harry. Oh, the git’s more than competent with a hex and what he and Lucius (Harry refuses to call the man 'Dad' or 'Father' or really much of anything at all if he can help it) have taught Harry over the last six months about Dark Magic is truly hair-raising, but... _but_. It's not the Malfoy's extracurricular lessons Harry's fretting over, nor Malfoy’s wand, either.  
  
"Back off!"  
  
At least not the hawthorn The Blond Git's left sitting idly upon his pearwood desk. Harry's even employed it recently (when Malfoy wasn't minding) and it rather cemented the nasty fact they're really blood-related--at least in his mind. But, yeah. He could imagine it now, his Mum having a little one-off (with lasting consequences) after Harry's _not_ -Dad brassed her off that one too many a time. James Potter had indeed been a bit of an arse, frankly. A real wanker. And Lily Evans had always possessed a temper, despite her sweet ways and undoubted intellect; it went hand in hand with that hair...and those eyes. Harry’s inherited the Evans temper just fine, thanks, (and certainly the eyes) but it's Lucius's skeevy genes he's fussed over now.  
  
And not even the ones _he _'s_ g_ ot stuffed in him. Those, he figures, are likely wonky as get-out but at least no worse than James Potter's would've been. He’ll manage to sort it; he’ll get by.  
  
It's that...well, it's that Malfoy Junior has them too, Lucius's genes, plus a good dose of the Black family instability. He’s the same as Harry, though, in all the ways that really count. And for all Malfoy’s easy, lazy smile right this particular moment (more teeth than necessary), he's mad as fire. _Hates_ Harry, just hates him.  
  
Been that way for six months now, worse than ever he was before Headmaster's Huge Sodding Revelation. Malfoy's absolutely pissed off at the whole freaking universe and Harry's the reason why...but Harry's not too certain he really gets it. Yeah, it’s bad, but it could be worse, somehow.  
  
Harry’s learnt it could always be worse.  
  
"Potter." Malfoy uses his PJ-clad knees and a dandy little hip swivel to knock Harry’s slouched legs further apart. He crowds in closer immediately. "Potter!"  Harry gasps--but Malfoy's already wedged so firmly between his reluctant inner thighs there's no dislodging him. "Potter," Malfoy orders softly, "open up," and Harry's never heard two more dangerous words than those, not even Avada Kedavra.

  
"No..."  
  
He says ‘no’; yes, he does, but it amounts to a hill of Botts for the good it does. There’s no teeth to it and Malfoy has him twisted nicely (and knows it), so he's not saying much of anything all when Malfoy clambers atop his wobbly lap.  
  
"--ngh!" is all Harry manages to eke out of a throat dry enough to raise dunes. "Oh!" he yelps a blink later, when Malfoy swoops in to snog him. Snog him hard, so his head snaps back against the cushion. "Mmmph...nnnnhh. Mmmm….!"  
  
Snog him like the utter bastard Malfoy _really_ is, deep down inside. Mean-tempered and nipping-hard and bruising for fun and pleasure. Malfoy leaves marks behind, always, on every single fucking occasion, and Harry’s had a terrible time spelling them off of a morning after—say, just before breakfasting with the parents.   
  
...Well... in this mansion full of masks and polite platitudes, he supposes consuming porridge, toast and bacon with Lucius and Narcissa is the closest he'll ever approach a real 'breakfast with the parents'.  Malfoy's got it easier--they’re not eyeing _him_ beadily, like inquisitive birds of prey suddenly discovering a cuckoo nestling invading.  
  
It’s Harry who’s under the ‘scope.  
  
Malfoy has it easy...all he has to do is touch, really. Be—breathe—exist. Or make those little noises he makes, not knowing, and then Harry's lost. Mindless mush in Malfoy’s wicked hands and perhaps it'll be his real downfall in the very end (Harry's not so sure Dumbledore's risky gamble on this one will pay off the way the Order hopes, no) and he'll be topped for it.  
  
But (undeniably) Malfoy still hates him much as ever if not more and Harry knows it--hates Malfoy too, for that matter, and passionately--and thus he's still taking all his preconceived woes out on Harry, one way or another.  
  
Ah…how? It’s easy. Matter of propinquity—hormones. Attraction.  
  
By fucking him. In the head, up the arse, on the always-contested divan--where ever, whenever, but without fail every night, either in Malfoy’s bed or Harry’s; safe inside the suite of rooms their father has laid a protective geas upon. It’s another blood magic ward, this one, but it does nothing to prevent Harry’s half-brother from loving him half to death.  
  
"--come on, come on _,_ Potter," Malfoy's murmuring, nosing into Harry’s ear. "Show me your stuff." Smooth, hard hands tug his belt roughly, drag at his denims (not even Lucius can cow Harry into trousers all the time) and ultimately slide serpent-like down his pants. A spell does the rest and Malfoy's, too, and the rumpled clothing once in the way is conveniently gone. Gone, like whatever remnants remained of Harry's fading willpower.  
  
"No..." he says, but it's under his rapidly huffing breath and he knows that Malfoy doesn't hear him. If he had heard, he'd only have laughed: "No?" he'd ask archly and lay a hand on Harry's bits, and Harry wouldn’t dare utter that word again for some time to come, for fear the hand would cease what it was doing. Yanking his John Thomas cruelly at the moment, fingers tight round his swelling shaft, and Harry's liking the punishment he’s getting rather a lot.  
  
"Can I?" He has to ask; he’s Gryffindor. Lucius can’t influence that, either. "Malfoy?"  
  
"Fuck, yes, stoopid!" Malfoy bites Harry's earlobe hard enough to draw blood...but it’s likely saliva Harry feels trickling down his neck, warm and wet. “Get that dick in me, little brother.” There's spit enough, now--and then suddenly almond oil by the handfuls, since Malfoy’s evidently decided to punish Harry even more severely by skipping over the cocksucking part entirely. He does that all too often; it’s one reason Harry hates him so much. Skinflint git, is Malfoy. Cheapskate.  
  
And arrogant.  
  
"Shove ‘em in, Potter," he commands. "Move it along, slowpoke." Harry does just that, of course, his fingers have been tapping away at Malfoy's pretty pink arsehole for ages now—but carefully, withal. He's not to be hurried, no. He can no more take Malfoy's arse without some preliminary stretching than he can fly a bristleless stick.  
  
"Faster--harder, Potter!"  
  
Not that the thickheaded git cares about Harry's finer feelings!  
  
"Yeah, yeah," Harry pants, shifting his own bared hips and arse and resettling the hungry carnivore draped across him, snow-pale blue-veined thighs spread wide, elegant arse crack revealed in all its glory to Harry’s blindly searching fingertips. "Coming, you impatient fuck!"  
  
It's beautiful, that arse. Two white firm globes that scream 'Touch me!'; a little pink-beige crinkle of a hole. A hole that has Harry salivating even just from memory. Gods, but he’s _horny_ and _sod_ Malfoy for teasing him so. ('Pleasures of the flesh, Potter,' Malfoy likes to taunt. 'Aren’t they something else... _brother_?’)'  
  
"Give me half a tick, bonehead. Gotta--just have to—I’m only--"  
  
"Potter!" Malfoy growls and whines, and it's hot, really, the way he's impatient for Harry’s cock. “Potter, Potter, Potter!” The way his arse is poised right there, those perfect buttocks eager in Harry's palms.  
  
Oh, yes. That they are. The pleasures, that is. Tempting as fuck. Worse than Erised; worse than any longing Harry’s ever felt before.  
  
Harry’s learnt a lot in six months but one thing holds true--you never can trust a Slytherin. Because this is all Malfoy's fault, what slop-blackened depths of lust Harry's fallen into, and he'll go to his grave claiming it. Just as Malfoy will likely go to his grave without leaving go his hold on Harry, and Lucius--well, Lucius will likely turn a deliberately blind eye to it all. just as Narcissa does, she who always asks Harry to address her as ‘Mother’.  
  
Harry’s positive she’s noticed the wonkiness of the timeframes involved in their common plight (Merlin, he’s Draco’s junior by a month and some!) but she’s lady enough not to mention it. He thinks that maybe one day he’ll manage to please her, at least a little. She is sweet and before winter hols began and Harry was hauled off to Malfoy Manor at Lucius's command (like so much excess baggage) she’d Owled him a rather super packet from a French chocolatier’s shop, just as she had for Malfoy.    
  
Harry at least hopes it’s deliberate, Lucius’s insanely oblivious inattention to the carnality occurring right under his and his wife’s upturned nostrils. And Headmaster! What Harry thinks of Headmaster is an ugly tangle...and it's not a pretty picture, no, what Headmaster most likely plans for him…for them, he and the Malfoys. No...just the Malfoy's, isn't it?  
  
Plug-ugly notion, that. Him being one of them.  
  
…Not like Malfoy is...oh, but he _is_ , too. The opposite. On the outside, at least. He's beautiful. So gloriously angry, so desperately needy. In his finer moments—post-satiation--he'll mutter something along the lines of Harry not being so very hard on the eyes, 'despite the Mudblood bits, Potter.’  It quite ruins the moment (in Harry’s not-humble and so-plebian opinion) but he’s caught enough other sleepy ramblings falling out of Draco Malfoy’s perfectly formed lips to know his sibling’s suffering through a  nasty ‘thing’ for him. A ‘thing’ thing, just the same as he’s feeling.  
  
What’s been taking them over, like Imperius.  
  
 _Pash_ , the Gryff girls call it. Harry wishes it were that simple.    
  
“Urr! Potter, you insufferable--!” Malfoy’s really ticked now; he rips Harry’s fingers out of the way and sits down on him—sudden-like. Like plunging down a crevasse, free-falling. “Ah!” he barks, throat arched, and goes dead wan, then red as fire, then pale again when his arse thumps Harry's upthrust pelvis bones. And whimpers. “Ah, no! Oh, _fuck_ ….”  
  
Harry’s not even able to utter a word. Not a single ‘S'alright, Malfoy—it’s alright,’ or a ‘Take it easy, silly git’; _nothing_. Malfoy’s tight arse has stolen his breath clean away.  
  
He grunts and hopes to Merlin Malfoy’s picking up on the comfort he’s willing so strongly through his very fingernails; his shifting, straining thighs giving way; the nearly unhinged jaw he’s got gaped wide open across the exposed fragile lump of Malfoy’s Adam’s apple. That his tongue (laying long stripes of smooth wet over skin) is soothing as it laves. That the way every part of him curves into every part of Malfoy states what needs to be laid bare.  
  
Honesty is really the best policy but Slytherins don’t work that way.  
  
Lucius, he recalls, when Dumbledore called him into the Headmaster’s office, only stood straight, hands clasped behind his back, and regarded Harry for a very long while, unblinking. He hailed straight from Azkaban and was grubby with it; hollow-eyed and clearly exhausted. Sapped, but with every second he spent staring at Harry (and it was absolutely every little particle of Harry he examined, from random cowlick to eyes of Lily-green to pale creamy skin to telling shape of hands; to slim hips and narrow waist, entire form foreshortened by early deprivation. Long toes trapped in cheap trainers; eyebrows that could arch just as sardonically as any Malfoy’s—every individual aspect, yes, short of stripping Harry bare in Headmaster's office), he seemed to swell back to his usual arrogant Pureblood self. Like a butterfly pumping liquid through its wings or as if he’d stumbled across a well in a desert; an unforeseen source of strength.  
  
“Hmm,” he'd hummed at last. “’Kill the spare’, was it? Bastard.”  
  
“Pardon?” Dumbledore had tilted his droopy hat cheerily. “Something to say, Malfoy?”  
  
Lucius had smiled severely, marched a step forward and set one hard hand on Harry’s shoulder.  
  
“Only that I understand, at last, what the Dark Lord was intimating, Dumbledore. ‘Kill the spare’, indeed!”  
  
Harry—bewildered, aghast, above all angry as house afire—hadn’t twigged then.  
  
“Son,” Lucius Malfoy had said—unbelievably—“Son, welcome to the family.”  
  
“Fuck me, **_fuck me_** , you-you-you wanker!” Draco’s recovered and rocking in his lap hobbyhorse-style and Harry’s thrusting up and jouncing him. “Fuck me good!” It’s ungainly and it's awkward but they’ve got a rhythm built of familiarity. And Draco hates having a brother, yes. And he hates Harry, as Harry hates him, in equal measure. And as for Lucius Malfoy’s part, it’s anyone’s guess which one of his sons is the 'spare' and which isn’t, but Harry knows they’ll all likely go the grave without ever knowing. “Fuck me _more_ , Potter!”  
  
Malfoy's never stopped hating Harry. He only hates him...differently...now. With every atom of his heart. Good thing Harry's alright with that. Can't be having sibling rivalry starting, not what with everything else.  
  
“Fuck you,” Harry hisses (in fine Malfoy fashion) and knows he’ll never be alone again. Draco'll make certain of that, at least. “Fuck _you_ , Malfoy!” He’s got a family, now.   


End file.
